The Island Stallion by Walter Farley

grass and ever-lengthening blue shadows, the two stallions moved toward each other to fight for supremacy of a band whose eyes were turned away from the encounter and who would wait for the stronger of the two to claim them.
    Cautiously the stallions ran, their strides of equal length, and the distance between them lessened.
    Steve said, “Flame …” but it was lost in the loud screams of both stallions as they met.
    They moved deftly on winged hoofs. No longer were they beautiful to see; they were two raging furies. Their screams drove the serenity and solitude from the valley, and the yellow walls picked up the heavy thuds of their hoofs on flesh and bone and cast them back into the arena.
    For many minutes it went on. Equally fast on their feet, the stallions feinted skillfully until one or the other saw an opening; then there would be the charge of thrashing forefeet or powerful hind legs raised to crash heavily against the attacker.
    It was too fast, too terrible to go on very long.Steve saw the dark, bleeding wound on Flame’s shoulder where the bay stallion’s hoofs had found their mark, and he prayed for his horse.
    Again and again the stallions lunged at each other, neither showing any signs of retreating. Their screams rent the air, and now blood flowed freely from their bodies. There was no difference in the color of their coats any longer. No difference in ravaging teeth and flying hoofs.
    “They’ll kill each other,” Pitch babbled hysterically.
    They were on their hind legs, locked together. Steve knew it had to end now. Neither could stand much more. Both would be killed, as Pitch had said.
    The end did come at that moment. It came swiftly, sickeningly. Steve saw the bay stallion lunge for Flame’s neck and miss. There was a twisting, turning of bodies as Flame hurled himself on the bay stallion’s hindquarters. His weight threw the bay stallion off balance, for he stumbled, then fell. Flame did not let him get up. Screaming, he brought his driving forefeet down on his opponent. He was still pounding when Steve and Pitch turned away, their faces drained of all color.
    They said nothing until the sound of battering hoofs stopped and the air was pierced by the shrill whistle of triumph from the red stallion.
    “It’s over,” Pitch said huskily.
    Steve nodded without saying anything.
    “I hope I never see another,” Pitch went on. “It’s a terrible—” The valley walls resounded to another shrill scream, and Steve turned quickly to Pitch, who said, “That’s his scream again.”
    “No, it’s not,” Steve returned grimly. “It didn’t sound like him at all.”
    He forced himself to look again. He saw Flame still standing near the broken and lifeless form of the bay stallion. Flame’s body was ripped and bleeding, his head turned to the south. Steve looked in that direction, then closed his eyes and wept.
    Pitch was beside him. “Steve! What’s the matter with you? After all—”
    Then he, too, saw the monstrosity of a horse that now stood a few hundred yards from the red stallion.
    He had come with the falling of the sun behind the walls of Azul Island. In the shadows, his massive body penetrated the darkness like a luminous thing. It was as though he belonged only to the night. He was as grotesquely ugly as the red stallion was beautiful. Thick-bodied, he stood still, waiting … waiting as he had done all through the fight of the other two stallions. Small, close-set eyes—one blue, the other a white wall-eye—gleamed from his large head, which was black except for the heavy blaze that descended over his wall-eye. His neck was thick and short, as was his body, and black too except for the ghostly streaks of white that ran through it. His mane and tail were white.
    Arrogant and ruthless, fearing nothing, he moved toward the red stallion at a walk, hate gleaming in his beady eyes. His heavy ears were pulled back flat against his head, his teeth bared. Suddenly he stopped, with